


Hollow Victory

by SelenaEstella



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gritty, Injury Recovery, M/M, Slow Burn, grimmichibigbang2020, literally gritty because they're in a desert, unhealthy relationship that gets healthier with time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26705749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SelenaEstella/pseuds/SelenaEstella
Summary: He can't see its eyes, he doesn’t recognize its mask or even the dark, terrible reiatsu still swirling like thunderclouds. But Grimmjow could be blind, deaf, and numb and he would still know that sword.Ichigo doesn't lose his powers after his final fight with Aizen, but they come at a cost. Grimmjow may just find he has an unlikely ally in his quest to become king.
Relationships: Grimmjow Jaegerjaques/Kurosaki Ichigo
Comments: 23
Kudos: 203





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this amazing art!](https://danger-r-98-5.tumblr.com/post/630547649618182144/i-took-place-in-the-grimichi-big-bang-it-was) Thank you so much ^o^

The king has fallen. The self-proclaimed god is gone, beaten soundly in some far away land. Hueco Mundo seems to settle, an ancient monster briefly disturbed drifting back to sleep. There are no more explosions, no more battle cries, no more swords and Ceros meeting beneath the pitch black sky. The age-old quiet falls once again, disturbed only by the soft skitter of claws over sand, and the distant moans of wandering Hollows. All is as it should be.

And yet for some, the battle rages on.

Grimmjow limps through the sand, red in his wake. His body is screaming but he cannot stop.

Because even that far out he _knows_ what's going on in that broken palace. Knows the Shinigami are still there, still ripping it to pieces, still digging their sick hands into every crack, flipping every stone, unearthing every fragment of Aizen's army that they can. Grimmjow doesn't know why. Only that he _cannot_ let them find him.

He's scared. Some part of him admits that. But Hueco Mundo’s rightful King refuses to roll over and die.

He walks. Nothing to him but his life and cold, familiar fury. Not a drop of water for miles but he's drowning, lungs full of blood, still aching from the crushing power that had swamped Las Noches mere hours before, as a battle had raged between two monsters.

Grimmjow shudders, forced to stop for a moment as his vision grays out. It’s been hours since that right, since the fake sky crumbled and fell, but he can still feel the echoes of the monstrous power. He's too exposed, and there are hundreds of miles between himself and shelter.

The sand erupts in front of him. Grimmjow dives into a roll and swears to himself, squinting through the dust cloud. The Hollow is enormous, ravenous jaws gnashing as it stares Grimmjow down. It’s eyes are an animal’s, primal and cold.

Grimmjow forces himself into something like a battle stance, clutching weakly at Pantera.

“Fuck you,” his mutters, spitting blood. “I'm your fucking _King."_

The Hollow doesn’t listen. The Hollow doesn’t care. Just parts its massive jaws and strikes.

Pantera glances off the Hollow’s mask. It twists its body with surprising speed, lunging again. Grimmjow digs into what little Reiryoku he has, kicking off into Sonido and appearing on the Hollow’s back. He strikes. Blood spurts.

It isn’t enough.

The Hollow’s tail whips up and smacks him into the sand. Grimmjow lies, stunned, urging his body to move. He senses his enemy turn, feels the ground tremble beneath him.

_Get up._

(He can't.) 

_Get up!_

(He can't move.)

The Hollow looms above him, a void ringed with rows of glistening teeth.

_Get. Up!_

The world stutters.

The air is forced from his lungs as he’s slammed into the ground, reiatsu like an ocean bearing down from above, all encompassing and _crushing._ Grimmjow fights to raise his head and finds a bone white figure with a flag of orange hair.

A flash of red cuts through the sand, searing into Grimmjow’s eyes and then–

Nothing.

Grimmjow blinks back darkness, pulling in great lungfuls of air as the pressure eases slightly. He feels lighter, but lightheaded, dizzy and sick. He doesn’t think he can stand. He knows he can't fight.

The Vasto Lorde slowly turns to face him. It stares down, eyes hidden by the shadows of its mask. Energy still crackles around its horns. The remains of a black Shihakusho hang off it in shreds.

_“You…_ ” Grimmjow breathes.

He can't see its eyes, he doesn’t recognize its mask or even the dark, terrible reiatsu still swirling like thunderclouds. But Grimmjow could be blind, deaf, and numb and he would still know that sword.

“Kuro… saki…?” Grimmjow coughs. Red splatters to the sand. A high pitched ringing fills his ears and his vision starts to blur.

“You…” the Vasto Lord begins in a deep, grating voice. “I will… protect… you.”

Questions swarm in Grimmjow’s mind, but the darkness swamps them all and his head hits the ground with the thud. He’s vaguely aware of the Hollow coming closer, of clawed hands curling around his body with a gentleness that surprises him.

_Just my fuckin’ luck,_ is Grimmjow’s last coherent thought. Then he’s fading away in a sea of black and nothing matters anymore.

* * *

Grimmjow comes to feeling like death, every bone aching. He pushes himself up with a grunt, feeling rough stone under his palms. A cave, then. Scarce amounts of moonlight filter in through cracks in the ceiling, and Grimmjow’s eyes adjust.

The Vasto Lorde is still there. The– _Kurosaki_ is still there, sitting hunched against the opposite wall. Oddly curled over, arms around his knees, sword stuck point-down into the floor. Watching. Waiting. Anger flares through Grimmjow's blood.

“The hell is your game?” he snarls. “You think… think you're too noble to kill me when I’m down, huh? You gonna wait ‘til I’m healed first?”

Kurosaki tilts his head, but his eyes are still hidden, emotions unreadable. It makes the back of Grimmjow's neck prickle.

“Well fuck that!” Grimmjow forces himself to stand, panting harshly through the pain. “I’m not… gonna be your toy… Got it?!”

Kurosaki’s gaze follows, but he doesn’t stand. It's weird. It's _wrong._ There is something so, _s_ o wrong with Kurosaki.

“You’re hurt,” he says, in that strange, grating voice.

“No shit,” Grimmjow mutters, a bead of sweat running down his cheek. He spots Pantera abandoned a few feet away, discarded on the ground. He can grab her and roll, try to fight his way out, but Grimmjow's body is screaming after just a few seconds of standing.

Kurosaki moves at last. He slowly unfolds, rising to tower over Grimmjow, approaching slowly with the scrape of deadly claws.

“Sit down.”

“Fuck off!” Grimmjow snaps, although he knows if he tries to take a step he’ll probably fall. Damn Nnoitra, slimy backstabbing bastard… 

Kurosaki growls, a low, chilling sound. He moves closer still, hands closing over Grimmjow’s wrists, stronger than iron. Faint moonlight hangs on the edges of his mask and for a moment Grimmjow glimpses one narrowed golden eye.

Then white teeth part and all thought leaves his head.

“Sit. _Down.”_

Grimmjow sits, though it’s more of a fall. Cold sweat breaks out across his forehead and his heart is slamming against his ribcage.

Kurosaki lets him go, but doesn’t move. Just keeps standing there like a statue with his monstrous reiryoku, and Grimmjow can’t tear his eyes away.

_Vasto Lordes aren’t supposed to open their mouths._

Grimmjow can’t claim to be Aizen’s grade A pupil. But he knows Harribel’s mask was fused, bone teeth locked together. He knows Ciffer was brought back with no mouth at all, just a smooth curve of white bone. Because Vasto Lordes are the _apex,_ the strongest a Hollow can become – they don’t _need_ to _eat_.

_Except Kurosaki. Of course he can. Is there anything that freak can’t do?!_

His body is frozen, but Grimmjow’s heart races with a primal sort of fear. _He’s going to eat me._ The thought runs around his mind like a caged, desperate animal. _He’s going to move at any second and_ **_eat me_ ** _._

Kurosaki slowly lowers a hand and Grimmjow can’t stop himself from flinching, ducking his head as he feels claws brush softly through his hair.

“Won’t hurt you,” says Kurosaki.

Grimmjow laughs, except it comes out more of a high pitched, terrified giggle. “Can’t really believe that,” he whispers, hand splayed across the scar on his chest and his rapid, frightened heartbeat.

“Won’t… We… we know you.”

Grimmjow’s head snaps up, hair snagging slightly on Kurosaki’s fingernails. “‘ _We’?_ ”

Kurosaki nods slowly, finally moving his hand. A shudder runs down Grimmjow’s spine.

“We… we are…” Kurosaki stares at his own hands, before moving them slowly to frame the hole in his chest. “We are… Kurosaki. And… we are… White.”

“The fuck?” Grimmjow whispers.

The Vasto Lorde nods slowly. It moves its hands again, bringing them forward to clasp together, fingers interlaced.

“King and horse… Hollow and Shinigami… together… as… one.”

The Hollow gives its hands a little shake, as if to drive the point home.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” says Grimmjow. His head’s starting to spin.

The Vasto Lorde sighs. “You will.” It turns back to the wall and its sword, sinking down to curl up again, continuing its vigil. “Protect you,” it adds quietly.

Grimmjow swallows thickly, easing down onto his side with his back to the wall and a hand tight on Pantera. “Well,” he says, breathless and slightly desperate, “well, if you wanna keep me alive, I gotta eat.”

The Vasto Lorde tilts its head again. Kind of like Yammy’s dog.

“Eat?”

“Yeah. I’m fuckin’ starving.”

It’s worse than that. Grimmjow is leaking reiatsu as much as he’s leaking blood, body trying to heal, wounds too deep to close. It’s just a question of what he’ll run out of first. A meal would help, but it’s probably useless.

It would, however, buy him some time.

The Vasto Lorde nods, getting up again. “Hunt,” it says, in that slow, unsteady way. “Hunt… for you.”

The Vasto Lorde turns to a short tunnel leading out of the cave, walking up the gentle slope and into the faint light outside.

Grimmjow slumps against the cold stone beneath him, wondering how the hell a few hours (days? weeks?) ago he was ready to crush Kurosaki’s smug face into the sand. Wonders, briefly, what the hell happened during the final battle with Aizen. What had turned the Shinigami into such a perfect monster.

But it doesn’t matter. Grimmjow can’t claim to be a patient man, but a king only sleeps for so long.

* * *

Time passes differently in the Hollow World. In the drifting clouds, in the shifting sands, in the steady growth of crystal trees, and in the lifetimes of its denizens.

Grimmjow counts the heartbeats between Kurosaki’s trips, trying to take his mind off the stinging itch in his wounds. He runs his hand down Pantera’s blade, feeling the little chips and cracks and wondering if she’s hurting, too. Reality bends at the edges as he lies in the darkness, grains of sand below his eyes shifting back and forth as he breathes, a lulling rhythm. Shapes fade in and out of the moonlight, half-remembered faces and shards of distant battles, memories mutated into visions that leave him flinching from shadows.

(Except sometimes it isn’t an illusion. Sometimes Grimmjow wakes to the Vasto Lorde’s horns cut out against the moonlight and the fear that grips him is beyond anything Aizen could ever make.)

But impossibly, he is healing.

One hundred thousand heartbeats later, the Vasto Lorde returns with his prize. Blood is dried on his chest and hands, a dark, moldy green. The sight is chilling, but Grimmjow was already awake that time and he crushes the stab of instinctive panic. He tears into the cold, bland meat and feels some of his hunger abate.

“Good?” asks the Vasto Lorde.

Grimmjow sits back against the wall, licking blood off his teeth. The Vasto Lorde observes him over what remains of the carcass, head tilted slightly. He seems… hopeful? Grimmjow never thought he’d dislike being unable to see those eyes. He considers for a moment, working a particularly stubborn bit of gristle out of his molars, and decides to test his luck.

“No.” Grimmjow clenches his fists to hide the shaking and looks his captor arrogantly up and down. “You can do better than _that._ ”

The Vasto Lorde lowers his head a little, towards the Adjuchas’ empty mask. “Don’t… like it…”

“Don’t like what?”

“Killing.”

“Oh for…” Grimmjow rolls his eyes. Definitely Kurosaki, _somewhere_ under that mask _._ “Well suck it up! Hunt again, and do better this time.”

The Vasto Lorde stands. Grimmjow holds his breath, gets a glimpse of golden eyes as the horned head nods slowly. Turns to the mouth of the cave. Leaves.

Grimmjow watches him go, a nervous tick starting in his jaw. It’s not right. Not _natural_. He should be dead meat by now, ground up and consumed like the Adjuchas bones slowly disintegrating on the floor. He shouldn’t be giving orders to the strongest Hollow in Hueco Mundo.

“Strongest,” Grimmjow mutters, “but not _smartest.”_ His lips pull back in a savage smile and he laughs coldly to himself. An image of Wonderweiss flashes before his eyes, and maybe that’s what happened. Maybe whatever surge of power made Kurosaki so freakishly strong also cooked his brains. Who knows. Grimmjow doesn't care.

But a King deserves servants.

* * *

They leave the cave as soon as Grimmjow can walk, determined to leave Las Noches behind. Every now and then Grimmjow feels Shinigami creeping along the edges of his senses, discordant flashes of power. They're still prowling the palace, still hunting for something or someone, but if that someone is the quiet, freakish soul at Grimmjow's side, then they don't know it. Nothing is searching the desert yet. But even with this new Kurosaki tailing his every move, Grimmjow prefers not to take his chances, and step by step, they leave Las Noches behind.

It's a long fucking journey, that's for sure. Grimmjow may be convincing himself that Kurosaki is his strong-if-stupid servant but he doesn’t get off on being _carried._ He limps across the dunes, recovering inch by aching inch while Kurosaki alternates between scanning the horizon and breathing down Grimmjow’s neck. They move from rocky outcrop to shallow crevice and eventually find another cave, abandoned and empty like the rest of the desert around them. Kurosaki gathers crystal branches and Grimmjow lights the pile with a spark of reiatsu. The crystal smolders, a weak red glow against the darkness, and the cave is quickly filled by the stench of burnt resin.

For the first time, Grimmjow’s discovering a downside to losing his mask – he gets _bored._ Horribly, achingly bored, in a way that has him picking at his scabs just for something to do. Way back, back _then,_ when he was a four-legged Adjuchas plodding across the sand, he didn’t have the capacity to feel something as useless as _boredom._ Survival had been the focus of his every waking moment. Survival, hunger, and fear.

Now it gnaws at his soul like starvation, except there is nothing to fill the void. The desert goes on and on, no stars to count or mountains to chart, no halls to wander and no Números to bully. Even daydreams of revenge grow stale, and there’s only so much plotting he can do while he knows so little. Grimmjow doesn’t even know who his enemies are, now.

Kurosaki doesn’t get bored. Any moment he’s not walking or sleeping, the monstrous Vasto Lord just sits somewhere, Zanpakuto in or near his hand, and waits for Grimmjow’s orders. Or stares at him, with those creepy unseen eyes. Lucky bastard. Must be nice to just exist. Grimmjow considers challenging him, trying to goad him into a spar, but he isn’t that desperate. Yet.

“Why are you here?” Grimmjow asks, so desperate he could talk to the goddamn walls. “And don’t give me that ‘protect you’ crap. I mean why are you _here,_ and not at home with your Shinigami friends?”

It usually takes Kurosaki a moment to answer, but the silence stretches on until Grimmjow’s ready to fucking scream. He’s just about to lose it when Kurosaki’s mouth opens, and he replies in that strange, slow way.

“Can’t,” he says. “Can’t… go… back.”

Grimmjow blinks. “Seriously?” Then he laughs. “What, you can’t open Gargantas or some shit? You can kill Aizen of all bastards, but you can’t travel between _worlds?”_

Kurosaki shakes his head. “Didn’t kill him,” he corrects.

“He’s dead,” Grimmjow says flippantly. “Shinigami don’t take prisoners. Just answer the question.”

_“Could_ go back,” Kurosaki mutters. “But… can’t…” He hands rise to brush the edges of the hole in his chest.

“Ah.” Grimmjow nods his head and smirks. “‘Cause you’re Hollow now, right? Those bastards would attack on sight. But you could take ‘em in one hit if you tried.”

Kurosaki shakes his head again. “Safe here,” is all he says.

“Suit yourself,” says Grimmjow, and Kurosaki – this strange, monstrous husk of Kurosaki – does nothing. Says nothing. Grimmjow needles him a little more, but decides he’ll find another way to pass the time. It’s odd, but with the Shinigami part gone, Grimmjow no longer feels such an instinctive drive to kick Kurosaki’s ass. Oh, he’ll rise and prove himself one day, challenge Kurosaki and win, but until then? Well. No one in their right mind would send a docile powerhouse like this packing. Except the Shinigami. Bunch of morons.

A sly smile tugs at Grimmjow's mask.

"Hey," he says, mockingly gentle. _"I'm_ not gonna kick you out. If you stay by my side, we can do more than just survive in this shithole."

Very slowly, Kurosaki tilts his head. Grimmjow's sneer grows a fraction wider, showing the edge of one sharp canine.

Grimmjow had long since decided that he doesn’t _need_ followers. What was the point, when all they’d do is question his orders and screw up their missions, fail him, abandon him, and _die?_ If he learned anything from Aizen, it’s that a true king stands alone.

But for Kurosaki… _this_ Kurosaki… Grimmjow thinks he can make an exception.

"That's right," he purrs. "Together, we can _rule it."_

* * *

Several million heartbeats later, Grimmjow kicks off shoes that have lost their heels and stands barefoot in the sand. Scabs have flaked off of fresh pink scar tissue in a crescent across his collarbone and a short, raised line on his abdomen. It feels tight and fragile, and Grimmjow can’t raise his left arm much higher than his shoulder, but he's healing.

Las Noches is barely a spec on the horizon, and the dunes ahead seem to stretch on forever. Grimmjow scans them with a hunter's eye, a prickle on the back of his neck where he can feel Kurosaki watching in turn. Nothing stirs, not even lizards. Word travels, even in Hueco Mundo, and there isn't a soul in a million miles who hasn't felt the thrum of Kurosaki's power. He's cleared the area out. Anything that didn't run has been devoured. The land belongs to Grimmjow and Grimmjow alone, just as it should.

Souls gather beyond the horizon. Watching. _Waiting_. Grimmjow's smile grows wider. Either they'll come to him, or he'll go to them. Either way there will be blood.

A hundred thousand footsteps away, keen eyes watch the horizon.

"Have you ever seen the sun?" one asks, voice high and soft, almost elegant. "I hear that it is bright enough to blind you."

"I have," said another, voice cool and smooth. "It was not as bright as that."

"Blinding or not," the first continued, "it has no place in Hueco Mundo. And _yet,”_ the Hollow scoffed, “they call this monster the _dawn."_

"It is not the monster that concerns me," said the second.

The first nodded. "You do not believe this land should be governed. You do not believe in kings."

"I do not."

"And I do not believe in dawns. We work well together, Tier Harribel."

A hundred thousand footsteps later, the sand dunes stop abruptly. Jagged black cliffs tower out of the desert, a wall of rough, cracked stone.

Grimmjow halts, Pantera held loose and lazy in his hand, smirking at the silhouettes stretching miles along the cliff top.

"What's this?" he sneers, voice rebounding off the stone. "An army just for me?"

The leader's laughter echoes down. Her head is smooth bone, and a pointed tail sways lazily behind her, but all other features are obscured by darkness.

"Well aren't you full of yourself!" she cackles, voice biting and shrill. "I think we both know you really _aren't_ that powerful, _Sexta-_ san."

Grimmjow bristles. Every insult, every slight, every fragment of anger and frustration he had felt since the day he had knelt at Aizen's feet _ignites_ in his veins. He growls, anger flaring inside him like it hasn’t for a long, long time. He itches to fight and destroy.

The army can feel his reiatsu blaze, a twitch running down the ranks, but the leader remains insultingly unphased. A slight twitch of her tail. A shadow darts from the cliff so fast Grimmjow barely sees it–

But he doesn’t have to. 

The attack is cut off by a crunch of bone and a shriek of pain. The Hollow staggers back, clutching his shattered forearm. Kurosaki hisses, a rumbling, reptilian sound that ends in a deep, warning snarl.

Grimmjow represses a shiver. He looks at the would-be assassin and arches an eyebrow.

"Guess even Arrancar are no match for you." He glances up at the Hollow on the cliff, finding the eyes that glint in the darkness. 

"Hurry up and kill him."

Kurosaki nods. He takes a step forward, but hesitates.

Monstrous, powerful, _stupid_ Kurosaki… hesitates.

And with the commanding twitch of an armored tail, a tidal wave of warriors leaps onto the sand.

Grimmjow holds his ground, firing off Ceros and slashing through the mob. Faces blur behind bared teeth and raking claws, enemies falling as soon as they rise. Blood sprays and Pantera _sings._

But the leader remains up on the cliff, crouched like a gargoyle, looking down on the carnage and Grimmjow can so clearly picture the smug, sickening smile. Kurosaki can handle the small fry. With a roar of fury Grimmjow kicks off the sand, hits the cliff in a blur of Sonido and brings Pantera down.

The Hollow disappears.

Grimmjow stumbles from the force of his swing. Stone crumbles under his heel and he’s forced further into the cliff, Pantera held ready as he hunts.

The Hollow reappears a few feet away. A Vasto Lorde with her hole in her chest, almost entirely white, face a featureless curve save for a pair of acid yellow eyes. They shine with amusement as they fix on Grimmjow, and with the tip of one long fingernail, she beckons him in.

Grimmjow adjusts his stance. Narrows his eyes. The Vasto Lorde is… hiding. Suppressing her reiatsu. It feels like looking at a mirage.

"That was a Shinigami trick," Grimmjow accuses. "Fight me for real, coward!"

He lunges and strikes. Sparks shower onto stone as sword hits sword.

_"You!"_

Harribel forces him back with a flick of her wrist. She stares calmly over the edge of her mask, Zanpakuto light and loose in her hand. She’s still clothed in immaculate white, but a new scar cuts across her belly. There is a brief pause as they size each other up, Harribel’s eyes flicking disdainfully over the rips in Grimmjow’s hakama, the dried blood on his hands, the grit in his hair.

"Your fight is with me," she says coldly, as the Vasto Lorde slithers behind a nearby outcropping of rock. Grimmjow tries to keep track but his distraction is punished by a harsh blow to Pantera.

“So you did make it out," he sneers at Harribel, grinning over their locked swords. "Did you run when Aizen died? Or just get tired of sucking his dick?”

Harribel takes a measured breath, not bothering to conceal the disgust in her eyes.

"Let it be known, Jaegerjaques," she says coldly, "that whatever camaraderie we may have shared means nothing now. Surrender, or I will show you no mercy."

Grimmjow laughs harshly. "What camaraderie? All you ever did was look down on me!" He lowers his head, excitement thrumming through him. “But we’re the only Espada left. Once you’re defeated, no one will challenge my rule.”

Harribel narrows her eyes. "So be it."

They meet in a ferocious clash of power, sparks flying amidst the singing of their swords, striking again and again. Grimmjow laughs, blood pumping, Pantera howling with glee. He can feel it, now – feel how his brush with death has made him stronger, how every battle up up til now has shaped him. How he was _made_ to be King.

“What’s the matter?” Grimmjow taunts. “Can’t keep up anymore?”

Harribel stumbles, a fresh cut across her stomach. Grimmjow catches the shock in her eyes and smiles wider. Her jaw clenches and she moves, whirling her blade. The tip catches and cuts a streak of red across Grimmjow’s chest, but the pain only fuels his bloodlust. Their swords meet again in a shockwave that shatters the stone beneath their feet.

"Your goal is pointless, Grimmjow," Harribel says, still so insultingly calm. "You cling to the idea of kingship because you fear your own weakness."

"Shut _up!"_ Grimmjow roars. He slams his foot into her chest. "It doesn't matter what you think. Either yield or die!"

"Very well." Harribel abruptly falls back. Holding her sword out, tip to the ground, Grimmjow feels her power surge.

_“Destroy, Tiburón!”_

It’s exactly what Grimmjow was waiting for. As Harribel slices through her veil of pounding water, he raises his voice in his own battle cry,

_“Grind, Pantera!”_

The surge of energy lances from ground to sky and halves the Cero Harribel sends his way. For a split second Grimmjow basks in the feeling of completion, his soul united with itself, roaring with heartless, bloodthirsty glee as his power rises and soars.

He lunges at Harribel, and for the first time he can hold his own against her, for the first time he has surpassed another Espada. He laughs as he slashes and gouges and claws, even as Ceros burn his armor, as Tiburón slices his arms. He will _win._ He will win and he will _rule,_ victory so close he can _taste it._

He doesn’t notice the numbness spreading up his side until it reaches his arm and his next hit falters. Harribel’s sword slams into him and Grimmjow hits the ground. A torrent of water pushes him back until he’s right at the edge of the cliff, claws digging into the stone to keep from going over.

“What the?!”

The lizard-like Hollow materializes again, standing far to Harribel’s right. The claws of her hands are slick with venom and tipped with Grimmjow’s blood.

That sneaky little _bitch_. It's going to be fun, ripping her eyes out. Grimmjow stands, teeth bared, hair slick and sticking to the poisoned cuts in his side. 

“Cheap tricks,” he growls, spitting fury. “Can’t face me for real, can you?”

“Of course not,” she says mildly, “and why should I? It takes far more than power to be a ruler, Sexta-san, but I don’t expect you to know that.”

Grimmjow takes a breath and flexes his claws. He's weakened, but that’s all, and the battle is far from over.

_“Die!”_ he roars, and lunges for the Lizard's throat. The Hollow ducks away, twisting with uncanny grace and for a split second Grimmjow is so blinded by rage that he doesn’t notice Harribel until her hand’s around his throat. Grimmjow kicks out and slashes her stomach but next thing he knows, his face is crushed against the ground and he's drowning.

It takes forever for the water to abate. Coughing and gasping, vision grey around the edges, Grimmjow struggles against the grip on his neck as he's dragged back upright. There's nothing below him but empty space and he knows he's at the edge of the cliff, about to be tossed to the starving masses and _these bastards are coming with him._

Grimmjow releases his bombs.

The world breaks apart. Grimmjow clambers unsteadily to his feet, ears ringing, armor cracked. He squints through the dust, teeth bared as he searches for his enemies. He can sense Harribel some meters away, but the Lizard is hiding herself again and could be anywhere. The army is moving too, far more remaining than Grimmjow had wanted or expected to survive Kurosaki’s onslaught.

Kurosaki himself stands out like a beacon. Rubble crunches under his feet and the dust swirls as he approaches, a ghastly figure spattered with blood. He tilts his head in a silent inquiry, looking over Grimmjow’s battered Resurrección.

“I’m fine,” Grimmjow mutters, scanning back and forth. “Stay alert. Harribel is _mine_. You take anyone who tries to get in the way.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” a high voice whispers.

Grimmjow turns, ready to strike, but the tail that slams across his stomach sends him flying. He hits what’s left of the cliff, tastes iron in his throat, and then he’s deflecting blow after blow of poisoned claws. With a roar he hits back with a barrage of Ceros, only for his legs to be swept out from under him. Grimmjow rolls clumsily to his feet, venom making his head swim. He grits his teeth and gets a few good hits into before a blow to the jaw has him smacking onto the ground.

He’s losing.

_How the fuck is he losing?!_

A kick flips him over. The lizard’s heel comes down hard on his spine and grinds him into the sand.

“You really don’t know _anything,_ do you?” his enemy murmurs, disgustingly close. “True, you’re strong, but I am simply a better fighter than you are, Sexta-san.”

“What the hell are you?!” Grimmjow snarls.

“Who knows? Some of us were never created to serve. Some of us didn't take _shortcuts."_

Her tail snakes around Grimmjow’s neck and slowly starts to constrict.

"Some of us fought our way up. Some of us aren't defined by Shinigami overlords. Some of us made it here _ourselves."_

Grimmjow fights against her hold, nails raking through the sand. “But you’re not… an Arrancar…” he gasps.

The Lizard laughs at that. “You think that’s where we Hollows _end?_ Oh, you’re more stupid than I thought.” The pressure increases. Sparks flood Grimmjow’s vision. “Why do you think so many follow me, would _die_ for me? It is because _I_ have something to _offer,_ Sexta-san. Unlike you, my poor, lonely usurper who couldn't even make one braindead Hollow obey him.”

Grimmjow manages one final, rasping breath. Darkness creeps across his eyes.

But abruptly the pressure disappears. Grimmjow sucks in a great lungful air, coughing on grains of sand. He rolls out from under his enemy, missing the half-formed, panicked words and staring up as the dust glows hellish red.

Kurosaki stands above him, a sun between his horns.

The Cero carves across the landscape, an arc of untamed power. Rock turns to dust, dust turns to nothing as it obliterates all in its path.

A ringing silence falls in the Cero's wake. For a moment all is still.

Then the ground beneath them crumbles.

Battle forgotten, Grimmjow struggles wildly, but the sand swallows him whole. He is sucked down into the crushing depths, falling and falling and falling inside the suffocating rush, no sight or sound or senses apart from the desert’s endless roar.

It stops abruptly. Grimmjow kicks and claws, eyes stinging, lungs burning, until the sand gives way at last and he drags himself free.

He lies there for a moment, gasping through gritted teeth, feeling like he swallowed half the desert. The bone white of his armor glints in the darkness and it’s shockingly similar to his first real memory, to that fateful moment in the endless night when he fought his way out of the depths and onto Hueco Mundo’s surface.

Except this isn’t the surface.

The mountain of sand rises between the tree trunks of the Menos Forest. There are _somethings_ squirming around in it, multiple somethings that make Grimmjow’s blood boil and one of those somethings is–

_“Kurosaki.”_ Grimmjow staggers to his feet and makes for the most powerful soul. They got separated but he isn’t far, just struggling under the sand, getting weaker by the second and it’s _pathetic._

Grimmjow plunges his hand down and finds a fistful of orange hair. He pulls until a horn appears, then grabs that as well and yanks Kurosaki to the surface.

_“Fucking hell,”_ Grimmjow snaps, “what is _wrong_ with you?”

He stares through the mask, finds golden eyes staring back at him, wide with confusion and… fear.

Grimmjow lets go. Watches as Kurosaki worms his way out, then turns his eyes skyward. The surface is barely a pinprick, it will take days to climb back up and even when they do…

"Let's go."

They walk away from the mountain of sand and the Hollows still struggling within. Deeper into the forest, surrounded by blackness and the ghostly light from within the crystal trees, no sound save for their footsteps and the distant moans of Gillian.

“…Sorry,” Kurosaki whispers.

Grimmjow keeps walking without looking back. He _wants_ to be angry, but exhaustion washes over him. His head is pounding, his wounds are raw, and his bad shoulder is starting to ache. Grimmjow doesn’t _want_ to think about this now, he wants to rest and regroup and… then what? Resume the fight? With what army? Grimmjow had long since decided that he didn’t need or _want_ followers, but if Kurosaki isn’t enough, then…

Then what’s the _point?_

A memory rises. Of the last time he’d been beaten down, even worse than this, battered and bruised with his pride ripped to pieces. Of lunging in with the final strike that would end the battle, one way or the other.

Of his wrist being caught instead. Of being spoken to with… something other than contempt.

“Whatever,” Grimmjow says. His voice is quiet but it carries. “We were outnumbered, and we were facing Arrancar as well.” He doesn’t feel like thinking about whatever that unnamed enemy was. "We'll need a better strategy."

“Arrancar… stronger?”

There’s something about the question that Grimmjow doesn’t like. He stops and turns slightly, looking over his shoulder at where Kurosaki is waiting a few feet behind.

“Yeah?” Grimmjow says slowly. “What about it?”

“Be strong,” Kurosaki whispers, more to himself than to Grimmjow. His hand is clenched around his sword, and he’s staring at his reflection in the bloodied blade.

“Become… _stronger.”_

He slams the hilt into his mask.

Grimmjow dives for him, but it’s too late – power swirls and knocks him back. The furious reiatsu, red and black and suffocating, spills into the air in a terrifying whirl before abruptly condensing, warping into a pillar that stretches from sand to sky before plummeting back to earth.

Kurosaki lies still in its wake, face obscured by waves of hair. Grimmjow edges closer, slowly reaching out with Pantera to fold back some of the orange strands.

_Shit._

White Hierro. Black estigma. A broken mask.

Kurosaki – the _Arrancar_ Kurosaki – opens his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for bearing with me! This fic has taken off in unexpected ways, so updates will likely be slow while I figure it out. Also it's kind of just hard to be creative right now tbh.
> 
> A couple of notes:  
> \- I am picturing Ichigo's mask piece as sitting over his eyes like a domino mask, and over his forehead until it reaches his horns (similar to Steve Roger's helmet in Winter Soldier). The black lines continue from the mask onto his face. I probably should have describe it in the last chapter but *shrug emoji*  
> \- This fic features a blend of canon, implied canon, and straight up headcanon, as well as my own interpretations of things made horrifically unclear in later chapters of the manga. If something doesn't sound right it's probably because of that, but feel free to let me know! I might just be screwing up.

Ichigo wakes up slowly, and it feels as though he’s surfacing from something far deeper than sleep.

His memories are… hazy. They split and twist and deviate, the same things seen through two different pairs of eyes. He remembers fighting, laughing, and fear. Remembers latching onto a newborn soul, remembers watching his mother die, remembers lending his power to someone stupidly ungrateful and remembers preparing to let that same power go. Love and hate in equal measure. The desire to protect and the instinct to destroy. He remembers monsters, friends, and Aizen, facing him down with grim determination and miserable despair, remembers that holding onto any semblance of power meant sacrificing his soul and… _changing._

He lived. He died. He awoke. And then…

He doesn’t have strong memories of that transitional stage, more thoughts and feelings than anything else. They aren’t really _his_ memories anymore. He was angry and scared and confused but… not lonely.

Ichigo’s mind stumbles down the vaguely connected dots that brought him from the desert to the forest. He remembers blood rushing in his ears and spilling on the sand, bloodlust tempered by the wholly human desire to hold back, to not abuse his strength by killing those so much weaker than himself.

Then… losing sight of something. Being so caught up in the fighting that he forgot something important.

Relief when he found it, desire to protect burning bright even then.

Rage when it was taken away. Consuming, blinding, and _red._

Then falling.

Ichigo sits up slowly, surprised at how _weak_ he feels, and takes a long, deep breath to shake off the memory of suffocating under sand. Remembers feeling ashamed. Remembers making a choice. Remembers darkness and pain.

Then… the tilt and sway of being carried. A body under his as they moved, solid and warm, _familiar._

(Never lonely.) 

Ichigo opens his eyes.

He expects the rough stone, knowing where he is in much the same way he knows there’s a hole in his chest and a mask on his face and that his Zanpakuto is silent and empty. A cave is the natural conclusion.

He is not expecting Grimmjow.

Blue eyes observe him, carefully blank. Grimmjow is crouched a few feet to Ichigo’s left. His back’s to the wall, his sword’s in his hand, and a pile of crystal shards smolders near his feet. Their eyes meet for an instant, and Grimmjow looks away with a scoff.

“You finally awake?” he asks, voice a low rumble against the quiet.

Ichigo sits up. His body feels… clumsy. Like it doesn’t quite belong to him yet. He’s too short but too tall, skin too thick but too thin, incredibly powerful but also… fragile.

“I guess,” he says hoarsely. Grimmjow snorts but says nothing.

It’s weird. Like Ichigo’s body is weird. Grimmjow feels familiar but not like Ichigo _knows_ him, for all they’ve spent the past… however long together. He had expected Grimmjow to leave. And as the silence lingers, and more memories drift back, Ichigo kind of wishes he had.

“Well then.” Grimmjow stands, turned towards the mouth of the cave. He looks tired, scratched and bruised from that mess of a battle that feels like a fever dream in Ichigo's mind.

_Good._

After using him like that, dragging Ichigo around like a dog on a leash, the bastard deserves some suffering.

But even so…

“Where are you going?” he asks Grimmjow’s back. “You look like shit.”

Grimmjow stops, turning just enough to glance over his shoulder, face still completely impassive. “Hunting. Don’t do anything stupid.”

He steps forward and drops – to the bottom of whatever cliff they’re in, presumably. Ichigo tries to get up and follow, but his legs fold like wet cardboard and he slumps awkwardly against the wall. There’s no pain, but he feels like he’s recovering from a bad bout of flu. Rearranging himself with limbs that are too long and too short, Ichigo has nothing to do but wait, either until he’s strong enough to walk or Grimmjow comes back.

It’s _boring_. Ichigo scratches patterns in the floor with his long black fingernails, shapes and patterns he might have seen during his lost life from before. The fire burns lower and lower and he’s left to drift in an uneasy half sleep, old memories passing before his eyes. Ichigo had known for a long time what defeating Aizen meant, that once he merged with White, there was no going back. He had known, but for the first time, Ichigo allows himself to mourn.

His tears dry in the time it takes for the fire to burn to nothing. Some time after that, as cold creeps in, the approach of familiar reiatsu has Ichigo blinking himself awake.

“Took you long enough,” he says, only half joking. Grimmjow makes a noncommittal grunting noise and shifts something around, lighting another pile of crystal and butchering his kill. Ichigo catches the meat tossed towards him and manages not to think about it, his hunger enough to eclipse any concerns about the origins of his food.

Grimmjow largely ignores him, doing something to the remains of the Adjuchas he’d killed. It has a yellowish green pelt, and Ichigo watches with mild interest as he licks the blood off his hands. Grimmjow skins it before doing… something with his reiatsu, sinking it into the fur. The bones and mask are disintegrating, falling away into reishi dust, but the pelt stays intact as Grimmjow tosses it over the fire and onto Ichigo’s lap.

It looks ugly as hell, but Ichigo belatedly realises that his pants are little more than threads. He strips off the remains, scrunching the cloth into a ball and tossing onto the fire, brief flare of flame enough for him to successfully tie the pelt around his waist.

“Thanks,” he says. 

“Don’t think it means anything,” Grimmjow mutters, eyes fixed on the mouth of the cave. “I’m only repaying a debt. You're still adjusting, go to sleep.”

Ichigo has questions, but he already knows Grimmjow isn’t much of a talker outside battle. That and the bruises on his throat look pretty bad. Ichigo frowns as he lies down, floor hard and cold but buffered by his Hierro. He remembers parts of the battle more clearly than others. Remembers seeing Grimmjow pinned. Remembers… really, _really_ hating it.

The fire crackles. Grimmjow remains near the mouth of the cave, a familiar presence between Ichigo and whatever waits outside.

He doesn’t dream.

* * *

“So what now?”

It’s been a few days, if Ichigo has to guess. A few sleep cycles at least, whatever they are for him now. Eat, rest, make some cave art, rinse and repeat. It’s getting old fast, and now he feels settled enough in his new body that waiting around seems pointless. Ichigo flicks a pebble, watches it skitter against a wall, and thinks that his old self would be alarmed at how easy it’s been. To adapt. To step away from his past. But his old self wasn’t Hollow.

Grimmjow looks up from where he’s sat at the mouth of the cave, working on something with his hands and teeth. There's fuck all to do in Hueco Mundo but Grimmjow has remained silent, for all his throat has healed. Every now and then he'll leave and Ichigo senses his frustration, unleashed against whatever poor soul happened to cross his path, but for the most part he simply waits.

Grimmjow sighs roughly, not looking up. “I don’t fuckin’ know," he growls. "Whatever the hell you want.”

"Eh?" Ichigo gets to his feet, unfolding a body that’s still slightly taller than he’s used to, horns knocking on the ceiling. He doesn’t miss the way Grimmjow’s shoulders tense. "Pretty sure I’m good to go. Aren’t you heading back to the surface?"

Grimmjow meets his eyes briefly before looking out into the darkness. With a bitten off curse he tosses his project out into the void.

"Whatever,” he mutters. “If you wanna fight Harribel and that freak again, be my fuckin’ guest."

"Harribel, huh?" says Ichigo, tasting the name. She’d been an Espada too, and not one Ichigo had ever had the chance to fight. During the battle he'd been too distracted to pay her much attention, and the thought of meeting her again is… tempting.

"But isn't the lizardy one dead?” he asks. “I'm… pretty sure I hit her." Along with the rest of the desert.

"Don't count on it,” Grimmjow says darkly. “She had some sort of ability. Let her vanish and reappear, quicker than Sonido." He grits his teeth. "'S how she got the drop on me."

"Right…" Ichigo can’t think of an immediate counter to teleportation. But that just makes the thought of a rematch more enticing. "So what are _you_ gonna do?"

The silence stretches on. Ichigo bites his tongue and watches Grimmjow’s jaw grind, hoping that the wait will crush an answer out of him. Truth be told, he _knows_ why Grimmjow hasn’t left, why he hasn’t attacked, and why he hasn’t slaughtered Ichigo in his sleep. What it meant when his stupid plan backfired and Ichigo saved his ass _again._ He just wants to hear the bastard _say it._

Grimmjow sighs, slowly, tension draining out of him. “Like I said,” he murmurs, and he sounds _resigned._ “Whatever the hell you want.”

And that… wasn’t what Ichigo expected.

He stands frozen for a second, mouth open, savage pleasure snuffed out. As he attempts to filter through Grimmjow’s specific brand of bullshit, Ichigo can only reach one, disturbing conclusion:

Grimmjow owes Ichigo his life.

Ichigo’s life is not in danger.

Ichigo – as strong as he is – will _never be_ in mortal danger.

Grimmjow will never repay his debt.

So Grimmjow can never leave.

With a hop, skip and a jump, according to Grimmjow’s own ass-backwards logic, Ichigo practically _owns him_ now.

It's _wrong._ Deeply, viciously wrong, in a way that makes Ichigo's gut twist and his chest ache. He clenches his jaw, fighting the urge to react to all bad emotions violently and takes a long, slow breath in through his teeth.

“Hey–” he begins, only to stop and cringe at how gentle his voice sounds. Pity isn’t the answer. Leaving isn’t the answer, either, for all Ichigo's aware he'd have no problem surving solo. He doesn’t like Grimmjow, doesn’t even _know him_ but something deep and primal _howls_ at the thought of abandoning his one-time rival. Without him, Ichigo wouldn’t have pushed himself. Evolved. Transformed.

Wouldn’t even _be there_ at all.

So in a twisted sort of way, Ichigo owes him too. Owes him more than just his life. He… actually feels better than he has in a long time. More stable, the emptiness oddly freeing. Ichigo’s no longer at war with himself, at war with _anyone._ He misses his friends and family deeply, but it only hurts when he thinks too hard. Out here, in the depths of Hueco Mundo, with a hole in his chest and a mask on his face and no rules except the ones he makes himself, he’s allowed to simply _be._

The same cannot be said for Grimmjow.

“Spar with me,” Ichigo says eventually. “No swords, no Ceros, just hand-to-hand.”

Grimmjow meets his eyes again as Ichigo waits for an answer. There's a flicker of intense emotion, but it's shuttered as soon as it appears. Swept behind a mask. It’s been like this since Ichigo first scraped him off the sand and he _hates it._

So instead of the maelstrom of emotion, all Ichigo gets is a slightly suspicious, “Why?”

Ichigo raises an eyebrow that gets lost beneath his mask. “You want to get stronger, don’t you?”

Grimmjow scoffs under his breath, turning his gaze back to the abyss. “We can’t.”

“Huh?”

“Are you for real? We _can’t_ get stronger.” Grimmjow takes a breath, and speaks like he’s reciting someone else’s words, “Breaking our masks means capping our power. That’s the sacrifice we made to become Arrancar.”

“Surely you don’t believe that,” says Ichigo, smirking. “You _want_ to fight me.” 

He takes another step forward, daring Grimmjow to flinch. He doesn’t.

“Isn’t that what you said? That we were _meant_ to fight each other?”

Grimmjow glances towards him, faintly surprised. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything from before.”

Grimmjow considers for another long moment.

“Tell me what happened to Aizen.”

“Ah, jeez…” Ichigo sits down and leans back on his hands, legs over the edge of the cliff. “It’s not like I know everything. I don’t know how the fight in the living world went, and I don’t know how he got to that point… But by the time I reached Aizen, he was a monster.”

Ichigo hesitates a moment, but revisiting these memories isn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be.

“There was no way I could have defeated him how I was. No way. He was like a god. So… I was taught a technique. The Final Getsuga Tensho. It allowed me to surpass Aizen long enough to get a decent hit in, to injure him. It left him weak enough that a Kido spell could imprison him. Far as I know, he’s standing trial in Soul Society.”

There’s a sharp sound as stone cracks beneath Grimmjow’s fingers. “Che. What a let-down.”

“I’m just glad it’s over.” Ichigo rolls his eyes. “Sorry I didn’t make it more entertaining.”

“Still…” Grimmjow chuckles darkly. “I would’ve liked to see that guy get crushed by a Hollow.”

Ichigo smirks. “He deserved it alright… But I wasn’t Hollow when we fought.”

“Eh?”

“It’s… ugh. It’s weird.” Ichigo searches for the right words, scratching his cheek along the edge of his mask. “Zangetsu had two spirits. White was the Hollow I would have been if I hadn’t become a Shinigami. My Shinigami spirit sacrificed himself for the Final Getsuga Tensho. Afterwards, I had a choice: either give up on being a Soul Reaper, and stay human forever, or…” He gestures to himself. “Finish what was started. Merge with my inner Hollow.”

Grimmjow observes him with a calculating gaze. “And give up your human life entirely.”

“Yeah.” Ichigo lets out a breath, leaning forward and lowering his head, hair spilling over his shoulders. “I’m still _me,_ mostly, but I didn’t think it would be safe. To be around them. I didn’t know how I’d turn out, so… I made sure to come here." He raises his hands almost subconsciously, framing the hole in his chest. "This way if… if Aizen escapes, or… if there’s any other big threat… I can go back.”

“You chose power over helplessness.”

Ichigo shrugs. “Basically.”

“Alright.”

Ichigo tilts his head enough to peer through his hair. “Hm?”

Grimmjow stabs his sword into the wall. His face is as blank and impassive as ever, but there's a look in his eyes that makes Ichigo's pulse quicken.

“Alright Kurosaki. I’ll spar with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who's reviewed. My specific brand of anxiety makes talking directly to people online very difficult, but know that I read and appreciate every single one <3


End file.
